


Thrice Blessed

by faerymorstan



Series: Snow Queen 'Verse [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Flower Crowns, Handfasting, M/M, Rituals, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:19:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/pseuds/faerymorstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A river, and a ribbon, and a pair of crowns.</p><p>Takes place the spring after the previous installment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aderyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/gifts).



> Three because fairy tales, and everything else because aderyn. Written with great love for a great person; aderyn, you gave me handfasting, and I hope it's okay that I tinkered with it and gave it back. The best of birthdays to you, poet-friend. <3

Spring: the Alchemist hovers above the trees: the Little Ship and the Great circle the pole star: the Cherry Blossoms blaze rosy sprays of nebulae at the horizon. The air slides down Sherlock’s throat like melted snow. 

_Enough,_ John said when he found Sherlock still at work at the hickory table. Closed the books, pinched out the candles between his spit-licked fingers. _Let’s go._

The muddy bank of the River Baker: they sit on stones and turn toward each other. The moon’s waxing, near to full; the running water’s murmurs rise and fall. 

John presses his knees to Sherlock’s. Takes Sherlock’s hands in his. Says, _Marry me._

A touchstone, annual, in the life between them: John offers marriage, and Sherlock refuses. The ritual brings them the comfort of a sofa, a curl of smoke, a cherrywood pipe. Affirms that in the wake of gunshots, ice wastes, seasons known and lost, they are still--are always--each other’s.

Sherlock decided months ago, wrapped post-nightmare safe in their bed and John’s arms, to disturb that peace. 

_Yes._

Observe: for a moment, John doesn’t breathe. _Yes?_

A flutter. A growl. Hands sliding into hair. _Yes._

_Sherlock. Oh. When should we...?_

_August, I think. When the roses are in bloom._

John nods. Rests his hands on Sherlock’s thighs. _August. Right. I’ll build us a bower._


	2. Blushes

_Please can it be private,_ Sherlock says, low. _The ceremony._ He’s theatrical, yes, always has been, but to lay himself bare, to tell John what he has never--well. He doesn’t think that he could bear an audience.

 _Of course. Anything, Sherlock. Anything you like._ John blinks. Paws at his eyes. _Do you think--I was thinking that maybe Molly could..._

 _That would be,_ Sherlock starts, clearing his throat. _That would be--yes. Good._

The sun’s a bright blossom unfurling petals of pink and orange and gold when they make their way home.

*

Spring softens into summer in a blur of clients and to-dos: the tailor hired for white shirts, white breeches, waistcoats with the customary ivory braid; the seamstress commissioned to embroider the silk ribbon that will join them; the bower built in the back garden and the roses planted, trained to grow up the latticework at its sides. 

Molly stutters and stumbles over the silver tom, who skulks off with a tail-thrashing glare, when they ask her to handfast them. _Oh! Oh, I’d love to. Does it matter that I’ve never done it before? I mean, I learned how, they teach us all sorts of things about souls, but mostly people are dead by the time I--um--oh, gods. Sorry. Yes. I’ll do it,_ she says, and blushes.


	3. Bore

They leave the house, shears and wires in their hands.

 _I’m not sure this tradition’s wise,_ John says. _Leaving you alone with shears is asking for trouble._

_I’m making your crown from weeds, John._

A snort. _’Til later, love._

Sherlock weaves oak twigs, white _Rosa canina_ and balsam, box elder leaves. Lays a cloth over the crown, sets it with John’s under the bower. 

He and John wash. Dress. Regard each other, silent, solemn.

The mid-morning air is still and fragrant. Molly waits under the roses with their ribbon, live-forever and wine-coloured mums in her hair. _Ready?_

They nod. 

_You two who seek to be one, be blessed. Do you each acknowledge the other sovereign of your heart, worthy of allegiance?_

_I do._

_I do._

_Then be crowned, and be twice blessed._

Sherlock sets the crown he made on John’s grey-gold hair. Lowers his head. Receives a willow circlet: white roses, lemon balm, heartsease. A single black feather.

 _John,_ Sherlock whispers. Remembers another crown: so long ago. John squeezes Sherlock’s hand in his.

_Do you consent to be joined, body and soul, in this life and in all others?_

_I do._

_I do._

_Then be joined, and be thrice blessed._

They hold fast to each other, the length of silk that binds them embroidered with buckthorn and the fruit it bore.


End file.
